From “The Insatiable Travel Itch” by Evan Mora
We walk through the port town surrounded by couples holding hands, a gulf of careful distance screaming between us, and my fingers itch with the need to touch, flexing at my side and curling into fists of self-denial. I want to lick the salt from her neck and rub myself up against her like a cat. I want to mark her as mine.
“Would you take our picture?” A sunburnt woman smiles at me, gesturing to a sunburnt man at her side.
“Sure.” I say, watching them in the LCD display, his arm around her shoulder, her arm around his waist, two red noses touching with a secret shared smile against the backdrop of the brilliant turquoise sea.
“Ready?” I say, and they flash me their smiles.
Honeymoons. Anniversaries. Romantic getaways. The space between Dale and I is thrown into relief by the abundance of affection on display around us, and I feel a recklessness tingling in me as I imagine straddling Dale’s lap on a bench in the middle of town, stripping off my shirt and feeding her my breasts. A tiny sound escapes my lips and Dale smiles at me wolfishly. She doesn’t need to hear my thoughts to know what I’m thinking and she takes full advantage of my arousal, whispering all manner of dirty things in my ear under the guise of pointing things out in shop windows.
She’s got me so wet I’m practically panting and rational thought is rapidly disappearing. Right now I’d be happy in a public bathroom with Dale tonguing my clit–hell, I’d settle for a blanket thrown over my lap in the car and Dale’s fingers pumping into me.
“What’s the purpose of your visit?” he asks, gaze shifting from Dale’s face to mine impassively, and I feel a small thrill, thinking of the box I checked, the one marked ‘pleasure.’
“Vacation,” Dale answers. He seems satisfied.
We secure our luggage and head to the next cluster of officials; customs always raises my pulse a little, even though I haven’t had the courage to keep the bag of cocks and vibrators and condoms and lube in my suitcase, tucking them instead in the bottom of Dale’s bag next to her mask and fins. The last time we travelled they searched her suitcase as I stood next to her on trembling legs, fear and arousal beating through me in alternating pulses. Would they open the bag? Would they reach inside? Pull out the fat cock still attached to her harness? Lay it on the table for countless eyes to see? As it happened, they didn’t even glance at the small bag, presuming I guess that it was snorkelling gear like all the rest, all of my imaginings much ado about nothing.
“You care too much about what other people think.” Dale says.
I do; I know. I want to please everyone. And so I’m careful to call her by her name instead of any of the slew of endearments I’d use at home; I’m careful not to touch her when we’re lying side by side on our loungers in the hot afternoon sun. But I think about it constantly and get more and more aroused–I can’t help myself. And I imagine that everyone around us knows, and that they call us perverts and deviants in their minds even as they smile politely and make small talk.
By the end of the day I’m aching to feel her pressed against me, and we’ve scarcely closed the door before I’m climbing on top of her, fusing my mouth to hers in the center of the king sized bed, despite the fact that the bellboy has pointedly left our luggage at the ends of the two twin beds in the other bedroom.
There’s a break in the kissing and I’m fumbling with the ties on my bikini, tearing it off with a curse and flinging it to the ground while Dale efficiently removes her clothes, chuckling at my urgency. I push her by the shoulders and she tumbles backward obligingly. I settle on top of her, grinding my slick pussy into her thigh, smearing salt and sunblock and my own arousal together.
I think briefly of the bag of toys tucked in the suitcase in the other room, about how much I love the feel of Dale’s cock driving deep inside me, but that’s not what I need right now. Dale knows it too, and tangles one hand in my long hair, drawing me down for a kiss that is soft lips and the wet slide of tongues. She slides her other hand down my back, urging me closer to her, until no space separates the feminine contours of our bodies. I revel in the feel of her breasts pressed against mine, our nipples hard and straining together; I moan at the downy soft feel of her belly touching mine.
Her hand trails lower, coming to rest on the generous curve of my ass, gripping me there as she raises her leg slightly, sliding me forward into the saddle between her hip bone and thigh, holding me tight as I ride her, her arousal wet against my thigh and the rich musky scent of our mingled desire thick in the air.
There is no cock, real or silicone in this room right now, and although I know Dale feels more comfortable with her cock than without it, she gives me this–this moment of pure unabashed girl on girl, and it makes me wetter than ever. All the blood in my body races to my clit when she sucks on my tongue and I moan, cupping her breast in my hand as I rock against her. Her thigh is slippery with my juices and I grind my clit against her slick skin until orgasm races down my spine.
“Tamago” by Anna Watson:
“This is your date,” she tells me when we’re driving one night. “We can find a restaurant and have supper, or I can pull over and fuck you silly.” Guess which one I pick? After I start breathing again, that is. We end up in the parking lot of an urban beach, a place where gay guys are cruising each other. I’m nervous; I’ve never had sex outside of a house before. What if a cop car comes up? What if a carload of bashers drives in? I can tell Dani is on alert the whole time she’s doing me, the whole time her skilled fingers are dicking in and out of me and sweet, dirty words are tumbling from her lips. “There’s a guy cruising me,” she whispers. “He would be so surprised if he came over and saw who I’ve got in here, flat on her back.” And then she says, in the same quiet tone, “Come now.”
We’re in Dani’s bedroom, standing in front of the mirror. Dani holds me from behind. She wants me to touch her but she’s hesitant. She hasn’t been naked with me before. The first time she fucked me with her dick, she was wearing all her clothes, including her boots. She lifts my shirt over my head and runs one finger up and down my breast, that secret, sexy smile on her face.
“What allows you to let me touch your body like this?” she asks, brushing my nipple. The light is bright in her room. My breasts are large, drooping, striated with stretch marks. They make me want to close my eyes, but the sight of Dani’s hands stroking them doesn’t allow it. I say, “Leap of faith.” “Yes,” she says, and tells me what a precious gift it is for her to be able to touch a woman’s body, how she comes to it in a sacred way, hoping the woman will know how trustworthy she is, how grateful.
“Hypocrite,” I say softly, thinking how she hasn’t trusted me to give to her in this way yet. After a long time she nods. “You’re right.”
But she wants it. Bad. I don’t mean she wants to be fucked, but she wants my hands on her body. She wants to be ministered to, as much as any do-me princess. I turn off the light and she shucks her boxers, practically running to the bed. She gets on her belly. She is so beautiful. I take out my tools but start with my fingers.